


Got Your Heart in a Headlock

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rating: NC17, Top Sam, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been at this for hours, now, but they've been doing this for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Your Heart in a Headlock

Dean... Dean has a filthy mouth. He's rambling, now, and what he's saying is barely cogent, but it's music to Sam's ears as he wraps his fingers around the base of his big brother's cock and squeezes, leaning over him to press a feather-light flutter of a kiss against the corner of his slack, blushing mouth.

Dean's thighs are strained and aching. He's never been this opened up for anyone or anything else before in his lifetime that he can remember, on his back with his legs spread wide, wide as a common whore's to make way for Sammy's hefty frame. In both fists, Dean's gripping the pillow behind his head. Sam pins his left hand into the mattress by his brother's right ear, bracing himself, twisting his right fist around the flushed head of Dean's painfully swollen cock. He stills his hand; drops his head and lets a glob of spit fall from his mouth into the cavern of his fist, and works it messily into the head of his brother's dick.

"Fuck. Fuck. Sammy— _shit_. Please. God, please."

They've been at this for hours, now, but they've been doing this for years, long enough that Sam—sweet, attentive Sammy—has been able to compile a mental catalogue of all the nuances in Dean's body language just before he comes like this. He shuts his dirty mouth and takes a deep breath. He covers his face in the bend of his arm and lifts his hips, tightens his thighs, holds his breath and begins to wait for the crest of limb-jolting warmth that is his orgasm, willing it up from the core of his body when the urge ventures close enough. God, but Sam can already feel him throbbing and tensing and hear the silence where his breath ought to be but isn't, because he's holding it; Dean is so close that Sam's afraid it'll be hard to know the _precise moment_ that he should pull off, leave his big brother feeling like his orgasm got lodged at the tip of his cock and hesitated a second too soon—lost momentum, got real shy and stuttered back at the head of him, balking at the gate like a gun-shy stallion.

Like always, Sam's timing is perfect. Grinning, he recognizes the quiet groan beginning low in Dean's throat; the way his back begins to arch in; the way he clamps down on his bottom lip with his teeth like it's the one thing that'll ground him, now, keep him here, solid and earth-bound on this bed, beneath his tormentor—his precious little brother.

Dean's groan dies into a strained, devastated sob. He knows Sam's plan, but as the hours stretch on, he's desperate to believe that an end might be near. Sam has been edging him for so long that his cock just _hurts_ , and he's throbbing all the way into the core of his groin—his prostate aching, his cock so hard and so hot that it feels like it's going to split into seams of flesh, but Sam takes no pity on him, none at all.

"Sam, _fuck_ ," is all he can manage.

"What's the matter, Dean? You can tell me."

"Don't—don't f-fuckin' ask me stupid shit," Dean mutters. His voice is unsteady like he's biting back a shiver of cold. Sam's laugh is low and suggestive, predatory, and makes Dean remember a time before his soul had been returned to him—but it's not cold. Dean uncovers his eyes and they're rimmed with wetness that beads out from between clenched eyelids when Sam's hand finds his hypersensitive cock again, once his orgasm has rolled back, gathering just behind the precipice. The skin is sticky with precome and Dean is leaking hot and wet, but Sam spits again, grips him tight and begins to pump him with slippery ease.  
  
"S'okay, Dean," Sam comforts him as his hand works, but it only serves to make his big brother squirm. "Hurts now, doesn't it? Doesn't even feel good anymore. You knew this wouldn't be easy for you. Knew I wouldn't let you come, not even when you needed it most. You knew all that before we started, so don't you cuss at me. You should be blaming yourself for this."  
Dean feels chastized, and it only adds to the mounting frustration—there's so much of it, so much energy and want in him now that he feels like he can't handle it without dying or losing his mind. It just doesn't seem possible to keep his sanity and tolerate hours of Sam's torture, too.  
  
"Feel like I'm gonna die, Sam," Dean manages to choke out, and he's pitiful, watching his younger brother's sinister little boy-smirk—he's like a child with full rein of an unmanned candy store. Dean is splayed out to his mercy, not daring to attempt an escape.  
  
"Yeah? Doesn't feel too good, now, does it?" Sam croons, sounding sympathetic for a moment. He isn't. He only squeezes Dean's cock tighter in his right fist and brings his left index and middle fingers to his mouth, making them sloppy and slick with his saliva. He strokes at the gathered flesh of his brother's tight, pink hole, beginning to work both fingers into Dean's body and Dean gruffly breathes out; takes it courageously until Sam crooks his fingers up hard into Dean's prostate, and begins to dig firm circles into the aching tissue. Sam drops his head to close his wet, hot mouth gingerly around the ridge of Dean's cock, but only briefly, and Dean whines, sounding pained and helpless. He's rabid with the sensations of it, desperately attempting to fuck himself with Sam's fingers even though his muscles are tight and tense from the stress of hours of edging, but Sam just won't thrust into his brother—he just crooks his fingers and rubs and rubs until Dean's seed is dripping out of him in an unsteady stream, painting his belly cloudy-white. It isn't enough release to even take the edge away from what Dean is feeling, and he is writhing, hiding his face behind his arms, his breath whoofing out of him in exhausted, quavering bursts. He pleads with Sam that he can't take it anymore, and Sam's only mercy is that his fingers slow and begin to fuck Dean in lengthy strokes, hooking up against his prostate each time he withdraws.  
  
It really is too much—even Sam can see that, now, in the way Dean's eyelids fill with wetness that glints in the dim, dying lamplight of their motel room; in the way he's pleading like he's pleading for his life, broken and sobbing: "please, please, please, Sammy— _Christ_ , I'm fuckin' _dyin'_."  
  
So Sammy eases his fingers out of his brother and gets to his knees, stretching that long, heavy frame out over Dean's. He braces his fists to each side of Dean's shoulders, lowers his head to seal his mouth against his brother's. Dean kisses him the way a draughted man drinks—deep and eager, his every muscle taut and straining for what it is he wants, his throat stretched like he wants to feel the chilly slide of every last drop, but in reality it's because Sam keeps backing up, lifting his head and grinning at how deprived Dean looks when he can't reach his little brother's mouth anymore—that sweet, soft pink mouth.  
  
Dean winces—it's a look like he's just felt a shooting pain. He drops his head back against the pillows and lets Sam's mouth waltz up his throat, his lips wet and his tongue fever-hot. Until now, Sam's been half-clothed in an old pair of jeans with holes at the knee, the left rear pocket ripped out of frame and hanging. When he snaps open the brass button and yanks the fly down, Dean lets out a hoarse cry of relief. Sam works his fingers in the waistband of his jeans and boxer-briefs and within minutes, they're lying in a heap on the floor, and Dean knows not to move his hands from where they're at. He knows that the game they're playing now is delicate—Sam only gets like this sometimes, frequently enough that Dean knows how the mood comes on, and rarely enough that it still surprises him. Frequently enough that Sam knows exactly what he's doing and how to do it, and rarely enough that Dean hardly stands a chance against this particular brand of poison.  
  
"Sound awful excited, Dean," Sammy purrs. _Purrs_ —he's got a voice that's all at once molten honey and crushed velvet, and a sandy sort of gravelly. It's a length of silk on a sudden breeze, catching on protrusions of dusky, mossy rock. Dean isn't surprised with himself when he's suddenly covered in gooseflesh and he widens those green eyes and looks up at his brother like the sight of him is the only thing keeping him grounded in this mortal world he's doomed to wander.  
  
Dean can't keep himself from quivering when Sam's feverish hands splay on the insides of his thighs, holding them open. Sam lines his cock up with Dean's and grunts out a sound—a chuckle. A scoff. He closes his long fingers around both hot, weeping glans and suddenly sounds like the cat that got the cream: "Look, Dean. 'm bigger than you." And he is. He's got a little over an inch on his big brother, and they're both thick and fat. Neither of them are beginner fucks, for the sheer size of them, but they rarely let their eyes wander outside of each other. It makes no difference what the size of their cocks might mean to anyone else—they're both well-adjusted to the sensation of one being stuffed up to near paralysis by the other.  
  
Dean whines. It's a pitiful sound, low in his throat. He sounds like a pup, begging. He arches his hips up and the friction that he causes between his frenum and Sam's own rips a half-sob from his chest and he's been so close for hours that he nearly loses himself then and there. Sam backs his hips away and grips Dean by the base of his cock. He squeezes so hard that it's nearly painful and Dean can't deny the jolt of _actual_ fear that zaps through him, snaring his lungs and throat for a fleeting moment. He knows Sam is serious when he grits his teeth down and growls into his big brother's ear: "Don't you come, Dean, I swear to God. You come now and you'll be wishin' you hadn't, 'cause I ain't gonna be finished any time soon."  
  
Sam can feel Dean's pulse in his cock, a rapid, kicking thump beneath heated flesh. Dean's taut as a bowstring, almost like he's frightened, and Sam closes his lips against his brother's temple, giving a low, husky murmur: "I know disappointing me is the _last_ thing you wanna do, Dean."  
  
When it's safe, Sam's stern grip releases. He begins to maneuver his long, sturdy limbs in a crawl up Dean's body until he's sitting astride his brother's chest and settling down all his weight. Sam doesn't want Dean to suck him and Dean knows that by the way his slit and the tender ridge of his frenum is resting against that supple mouth, parted, now, and rasping out labored breaths that come as a product of nearly all two hundred and twenty pounds of Sam Winchester perched in the center of his chest.  
  
"Since you're so determined to get off as soon as I touch your cock, Dean," Sam grunts, his voice low and gruff. He smirks at the way his precome stains his brother's nose wet and shiny, and the way Dean is beginning to nuzzle up into it, like a kitten preparing to nurse, and Sam doesn't need to continue for his brother to know exactly what needs to be done.  
  
Dean's mouth is sloppy-wet when he opens it to begin messily kissing his brother's cock. He kisses at it like it's the last thing he'll ever do, the wetness of it smearing against the corners of his mouth, the lines of his lips. He makes it messy and sloppy-wet because he knows it's the only thing he'll get when Sam decides to fuck him. "There's my good boy," Sam praises, low and dark and rough, thrusting forward against Dean's tongue and lips. Dean grunts, and Sam inquires: "What is it, Dean? What's the matter?— _fuck_..."  
  
"More," is all Dean can manage while Sam grips the hair at either side of his head and holds his cock still against his brother's lips. "Give it to me. Choke me with it, Sammy," Dean pleads, then, and Sam grunts and obliges, fingers curling around the nape of Dean's neck and pulling his head up. Sam pushes into his brother's mouth with such force that the head of his cock knocks his brother's soft palate, triggering his gag reflex, and Dean coughs, but braves the forceful thrusts. Sam lets his brother's head rest back and he leans forward over him, pushing his hips inward and his cock down Dean's willing throat. He's relaxed enough to take it. Dean tests Sam's limitations and releases his grip on his pillow to mold his hands tightly against the backs of Sam's thighs. Sam doesn't protest, pushing until he feels his cock pop past his brother's soft palate and Dean can no longer breathe, and he hasn't realized how much he's been denying himself until now, with his brother's throat squeezing around his cock.  
  
Sam groans, throaty and low and leans his head back, his eyes fluttering shut. "See how long you can hold that." Sam's voice is strained. He fists the sheets on either side of Dean's shoulders, oblivious to the struggle beneath him: Dean holding in what little air he had left in his lungs after Sam came to settle down on his chest. It doesn't last long, and soon, Dean is writhing and choking, digging his fingertips into the sides of Sam's thighs. Sam gives and pulls out and his cock is dripping with saliva that bridges the gap between Sam's flushed, aching cockhead and Dean's flushed, aching mouth with delicate silvery strings that break as Dean heaves for oxygen.  
  
Sam is grinning, but tears are streaming from the outer corners of Dean's eyes. They're rimmed red, and Dean's nose is red, and his cheeks are red. "Again?" Sam asks, a corner of his mouth curling up further into that shit-eater's grin.  
  
Dean shakes his head vigorously, still coughing. Sam traces up his brother's saliva with his thumb, collecting it, shoving it back between Dean's lips and Dean yanks back like he might start wretching if Sam doesn't stop it, sick of having anything down his throat—but Sam does stop it, crawling back down Dean's body and sealing their mouths with a kiss that's more bite than anything else, more strong white tooth than anything gentle.  
  
Dean's hands are shaking, Sam notices when he laces his fingers with them and pins them above their heads as they kiss, rough and hard. He uses his thighs to push Dean's legs back again, and Dean thrusts his hips up at the first sign of heat from Sam's cock as the head bobs near his hole. He wrenches his neck to pull his head away, pull his mouth away from Sam's overtly possessive kiss to gasp for air, panting like a dog in the middle of summer. "Sam, God."  
  
"Yeah?" Sam's tongue firms into a point and traces a rivulet of salty sweat that races down the smooth chisel of Dean's cheekbone.  
  
"Fuck me. You gotta—you gotta..."  
  
"Gotta what? I don't _gotta_ do anything, Dean. Keep behavin' like this and I'll show you how much I mean that."  
  
"Sammy, _please_." The plea carries such weight with it that it makes Sam consider, for a moment, stopping all this. But Dean's belly is smeared with precome and it's still oozing out, slicking his head and navel. If Dean shows no sign of reluctance, neither will Sam.  
  
"All right," Sam gruffs, sounding resolute. He braces his left fist into the mattress by Dean's head and uses his free hand to line his cock up with his brother's hole. He's messy with Dean's saliva and his own precome, and Dean's so relaxed that the head of him pops in easily, and Dean arches up, pushing his hips forward, groaning, " _Fuck_ , Sammy. Yeah. God, _fuck_ ," and slamming his eyes shut. He can't breathe. He can't think and all that matters is Sam's cock inside of him— _barely_ inside of him and he could come just like this if he wanted; if Sam wanted.  
  
"That enough?" Sam growls, but he knows it's not, knows how his brother's muscles clench and pull like they're trying to suck him right in, milk him, when he really wants something stuffed up inside of him.  
  
"No," Dean manages. "God, no. C'mon, Sammy. Give it to me hard. Give it to me all the way, c'mon. Get it, c'mon." He's writhing and grabbing for Sam's hips, pulling him in as much as he can until those long, strong fingers trap his wrists again and pin him and Sammy's hips are shooting forward, burying him inside of Dean until their bodies are grinding almost painfully where they meet. Dean's cock leaks like he's been full of come, brimming with it for days, cloudy droplets pattering against his belly. He's silent for a moment, twisting, grinding, Sam's body braced against him until Dean finally finds his voice and cranes his neck up and feeds his brother a long, lewd, needy moan.  
  
"That's it," Sam encourages him, words squeezed between desperate kisses. Dean's hips twist and grind and it takes nearly all of Sam's weight to pin him. "Good boy. Be a good, good boy for me and be still so I can fuck you proper, Dean." Dean can hear it, hear his little brother's voice brittling and he knows that Sam's close, too, and though he trembles with the effort, he stills and lets Sam raise off of him just so. Sam lifts his hips, withdraws until he can see the ridge of his cockhead peeking from the snug fit of plush pink muscle. He straightens up and splays his hands against the insides of Dean's thighs and holds him back and wide open and Dean is helpless to resist—doesn't want to. Could never want to.  
  
Sam's hips jolt forward again and bury him to the root. He lets a ragged breath escape, telltale, but it's the only sound to betray him. Dean can barely sit still and his hands cradle against his head in a universal gesture of stress or concern, and his eyes are rimmed with tears as he arches back and buries his head against the pillows, crying out into them: "More. **Fuck** me, Sammy," crossing his arms over his face and groaning against the bends of them.  
  
This time, Sam obliges. He's strong. He's stronger than anyone Dean's ever met—even Dad, back when Dean was small-framed and compactly muscled and Dad seemed seven feet tall and invincible. Sam's even more than that. He pulls out again and it's no more painstaking easy-going slow-out and fast-in, it's Sam picking up a sudden rhythm, a long stroke that opens Dean up from the root of Sam's cock to the tip of it. Sam adjusts his knees and angles his hips and suddenly, the head of him is pistoning past Dean's prostate. Dean begins to gasp something that sounds like it might've turned out vulgar, blasphemous, an airy and incredulous _Jesus fuck, Sam_ , but the words escape him, his eyes clenching shut as Sam bends over him to seal his lips against the sensitive skin of Dean's neck.  
  
Dean can't think; can't breathe. Sam's kisses falter and he hooks his elbows beneath Dean's knees, his ankles fitting neatly into the curve of Sam's neck and shoulders as he folds his big brother nearly in half to slam into him, smothering moans of praise against Dean's collarbone. Every stroke against Dean's prostate causes his muscles to clench, squeeze Sam up inside so it's hard for him to withdraw without making Dean feel like he's being turned inside out, and it's a good feeling, that one. Dean's eyelids are full with moisture and he's nearly sobbing, and Sam shows no signs of slowing, his body taut as wire, held up on two arms like chiseled pillars, fists digging pits into the mattress, his shoulders gathered up and indented with the shape of his shoulderblades where they tense together around his spine.  
  
The position only holds for so long before Sam slides easily out of Dean's body and Dean lets go all the breath he's been holding back, his lungs tight and the air in them banked up behind the extreme tension that comes of teetering dangerously close to the edge of his orgasm and being repeatedly denied the proper release. Furious and prepared to lash Sam for stopping so soon, being rolled smoothly onto his belly by two big hands at each side of his ribcage is somehow the last thing he expects. "Get that pretty ass up for me, Dean," he can hear Sam saying, and there's no question that denying him now—even _hesitating_ to oblige—might be the worst mistake Dean's ever made. So he scrambles to get up onto his knees, spreading them so that his ass is lowered and easily accessible for Sam, his upper body flat to the bed. His face is burning hot as a fever but he buries it against the pillows anyway, crying out, his muscles knotting up when Sam seals his lips against Dean's hole without warning and plunges his tongue deep into the relaxed ring.  
  
Dean arches his back up and fists the sheets, pushing back against Sam's face. He feels long, sure fingers seek out the painful hardness of his erection, stroking almost tentatively, and Dean nearly comes undone then and there. Sam knows exactly what he's doing, knows exactly how to handle his brother, measures his touch so that it doesn't linger too long—just long enough, judging by the way Dean's back can't seem to shake out that tense, desperate arch. Dean stuffs his face against his pillows, gripping them. He wants to plead with Sam but knows that it would only prove humiliating for him—Dean won't get anything Sam isn't perfectly ready to give, and it's a devastating realization that has him groaning into his bed, that this could go on for hours, stretch on even after Sam is spent. He imagines, almost hopes, that he'll orgasm by accident before the torment draws on any longer, but hearing the sharp snap of black rubber around the base of his cock quickly rids him of any hope for an easy release.  
  
Sam continues to lap hungrily at Dean's hole, relaxed and open and clenching from time to time with the same rhythm as the aching throb in his cock and perineum. His fingers are wet with saliva and they slide in easily, hooking down, spreading an inch or so and opening Dean up more still. Dean seems incapable of forming coherent sentences or thought, or even real sound, and he supposes it's futile, now, but begins to pace himself, anyway, evening out his breath in an attempt to relieve some of the maddening tension.  
  
"That's good, Dean. Try to relax, if you can. We're not gonna be done for a while yet." Sam's words are gentle, and though the sympathy is false, the tenderness is not. He knows that Dean might be going right out of his mind now, but he'll remember tonight for weeks the come, even if it is just from the lingering ache in his ass.  
  
Sam slips his fingers out again and Dean remains stretched. Sam pushes the fat head of his cock against the opening, fucked rosy and pliant, and slips in without resistance. The relaxed fit of it squeezes Sam's cock just right, from tip to base as he buries himself deep, Dean's walls snuggling up close, Dean's insides sinking in against every last ridge and curve of his brother's cock. Sam's response is delayed, but a low groan escapes him as he straightens up on his knees and inches up close, his hands spread and grasping possessive on the sleek chisel of Dean's hips. He buries in until his hips grind against the muscled curve of Dean's ass and Dean is finally groaning, helpless, into the pillows, curving his body so that he can see some part of Sam—Sam's hand or his thigh or his hip—as it connects with himself.  
  
"I know you can't take it much longer, Dean, you don't even need to say it." Sam understands and Dean is thankful for that, but it doesn't stop Sam's torture, or even appease the beast of his blind, possessive desire. "I'm just—I'm so fucking close, Dean. Can't believe this is how you feel every time I edge you and bring you back. God, I bet you really are dyin'." Sam laughs a low, purrowling laugh and Dean whimpers. "I'm fuckin' sorry, Dean. That's so fuckin' terrible for you."  
  
All the while, he's pushing into Dean and pulling out of him with strong, languorous thrusts, using his big brother's body as a device to achieve his own orgasm. Sam briefly wonders if either of them can handle this without whiting out, but supposes they'll find out soon enough, and his fleeting curiosity is burst through by the hot, quick sensation of Dean bucking back with his hips and forcing Sam all the way inside of him.  
  
"God damn it, Sam. Fuck me. You don't gimme that cock now, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, swear to God. Swear to f— _oh_ , fuck, yeah, fuck—" and all at once, Sam is tipped up onto his knees just enough to angle down into Dean's body, and one palm is supporting his weight at the center of Dean's shoulders (all the breath _whoofs_ out of him in one steady burst), and the other hand snaring Dean's wrist and wrenching his arm around to be pinned at the small of his back, and his thrusts are fast and strong. Dean slips farther and farther forward on the bed with every jolt but the burn of his cheek against the fabric of the motel bed's sheets is the very last thing on his mind. Most of his brain is occupied by jumbled awe at the way Sam fucks him, so fast that Dean can barely process the ridge of Sam's thick, lengthy cock knocking into and past the aching swell of his prostate before it's being withdrawn again. Dean chants breathy curses into his pillow and lets Sam pound at him, not sure how long his little brother can go—but _boy_ , can he go.  
  
Dean's cock drips hot and sticky and messy onto the sheets beneath him, a steady stream of droplets that increases when Sam's cock passes forcefully over his prostate. The pit of Dean's belly jumps at the sensation of Sam's fingertips just being _near_ his cock, and suddenly his arm is freed and his little brother's nails are plucking at the cockring he snapped into place, rolling it off and the blood begins to rush back into and out of the organ, allowing it to kick and throb properly. The ring done away with, Sam wraps his fingers around Dean's cock and begins to pump him with all the sloppy wetness he has produced. Dean cries out the best he can with Sam's hand pinning him, all his weight and the weight of his thrusts balanced on his palm—and Sam isn't careful when he balances himself there and lays all his strength in his hips, roughly masturbating his brother through his desperate cries of relief, through the wetness in his eyes that's just beyond his power to control given this abrupt surge of sensation and the elation of the promise of release.  
  
Dean squeezes his eyes shut against tears and prays to whatever Gods above that this isn't just build-up to another denied orgasm, and he clenches his fists in preparation of that refusal, but Sam doesn't stop. He works his wrist and twists his hand over the head of Dean's cock, and Dean's veins begin to pump, muscles clenching around Sam like he's coming already.  
  
"C'mon, Dean. Easy, now. Just let it go. Let go for me, c'mon." Sam's urgings are explosively fruitful, for Dean's muscles are seizing and he's tensing up, crying out, grinding and grasping his little brother, needy and desperate as his cock begins to throb. Sam uses the weight of his body to flatten Dean against the bed but for the little triangle of space where his hand fits in and squeezes and pumps a handful of unbelievably hard, fever-hot cock, and spreads himself out over his brother's body, showering Dean's nape and jaw with kisses. Sam reaches around with his free hand to cradle Dean's jaw and guide his head back, and somehow, they meet at the middle with a misaligned kiss that's wet and warm and wanting, and with a few more well-placed thrusts and well-timed twists of his wrist, Sam takes Dean apart beneath him.  
  
Sam can feel the full-body shudder, the muscles uncoiling with release and tensing with the spasms of it. Sam is sure Dean's never felt anything quite so intense—they've never gone this long before—because he collapses tightly to the bed, pinning Sam's hand between his hips and the mattress, and Sam can feel every inch of him twitching and quavering. He's silent for a moment, hugging the pillows, and then there's a long, lewd, tremulous moan quivering up from low in Dean's chest and he's coming hard—Sam purrs: "There it is, Dean. Let it go."—keening and heaving with the force of hours and hours, what feels like _ages_ worth of suppressed orgasms being forcibly expelled from his cock. Sam squeezes him through it, through contractions that kick so hard they're almost painful, Dean's cock arching with each new burst of seed.  
  
Dean is panting like an animal: "Don't—don't s-stop fucking me—keep on—keep going, Sam, God, fuck, _please_." It's copious, sticky and hot and Sam's fingers are absolutely slick with it, but he doesn't care. Dean's body makes desperate, involuntary clutches at Sam's cock, each squeeze seeming tighter, more possessive than the last, and Sam drops his forehead against his brother's shoulder, fucking him in deep, quick thrusts. His own orgasm hits him with a force like a highway collision, and he stifles a cry against Dean's shoulder, releases his tender cock and buries himself inside of Dean so deeply that his body gets shoved up and his hands shoot out weakly to protect his head from knocking against the headboard before Sam stills, every muscle taut and quivering in the wake of this release, the intensity of it.  
  
He fills Dean so completely that Dean's eyes snap open in surprise as three, four, five hard-kicking, frenzied pulses later Sam is only nearly finished, only just beginning to calm into lazy throbs and rushed breaths of obscenities. Sam groans, low and long and gruff and he slides his hands up the sturdy barrel of his brother's ribcage, over the dips of his shoulders and up his arms to join his hands, where they clutch and clutch at the edge of the bed, knuckles squeezed between mattress and headboard. He rocks his hips, stretched long and flat against Dean's back, grinding into the mess he's made. He feels the messy shift of his own seed inside of Dean as it's displaced by the softening girth of him, as it seeps past relaxed muscle, drips and drips in lewd rivulets down the tender expanse of Dean's perineum.  
  
Sam turns his head and rests his cheek against the dip between his brother's shoulders, turns again to snuffle into the curve of Dean's neck, the tender inward-arch that he won't admit is ticklish. Dean lifts his shoulder, bunches it against his neck, drawing away from Sam's sleepy-sighing nose.  
  
"Quit it, ass."  
  
"Mmm," Sam grunts, steadying Dean's hips with two hands at either hipbone and gingerly withdrawing from him. "You're too good to me, sometimes."  
  
"I know I am. Now cover me up." Dean's voice is a slur of sleepy mumbles overtop the susurration of laughter from his brother's mouth. Sam bumps Dean with every limb that he can on his way down the bed to grab the comforter off of the floor and sling it up over Dean's limp frame, tucking it up close to his chin and burrowing beneath it, himself. Some hours will pass before Sam decides to get out of bed and clean up, but for now, he's content to lay with an arm behind his head, eyes up, matrixing sigils in the textured finish of the ceiling above until sleep takes him.


End file.
